What are you writing?

i am writing a book more obtuse and funnier than finnegans wake. it will remodel todays society. it will reshape the minds of the youth. it will be utterly incomprehensible and will remain unread. i can't wait to finish it. i gave up on a ridiculous experiment in narrative bad influences inveigled me into.
what about you?
here's an extract.
brainfeeders pounce from hideouts in cloud vapour. leech out the brain fluids. leave behind an idiot. idiot trails of brainfeeders through countryside

I'm meant to be writing a book about equality, of all things. The varieties of equality worth wanting, to be more specific. It's supposed to introduce some possibly useful distinctions between different kinds of "elitism", e.g. Leavisite or Reithian as opposed to vanguardist or based on the individuation of shared communities of practice. It will probably be fairly dry. I may have to write some poetry to take my mind off it.

well write it then. that's all there is about brainfeeders. i don't like overelaboration. one idea presented in a line or two then move swiftly on. we got a lot to see and there's no time to be idling. i do have a narrative section though. its in the fantasy genre which has a very large audience. the fantasy market is one i am eager to tap into.

moving through fortified hill cities of great wealth, commanding acres of rich farmland. We spend a happy week browsing in the private library of a high ranking government official.
they hold learning in high-esteem here. we were welcomed as scholars. fed peacock and mussels and sweet roasted garlic. We told them of the plague cities we had left behind.
wastelands of retail space and office lobbies, surveillance cameras, armed men on the streets, coffee outlets, sterile marketplace. sweatshops, slave plantations, battery farms of the world dump their wares here. plague ridden meat. waxen oversized fruit from the greenhouses. bland chemical taste of residual pesticides.
total systemic corruption.
they warned us of the one-eyed hairy folk who dwell in the valleys below and hate outsiders. they wear animal pelts and carry heavy cudgels. they were constantly encroaching on the towns farmland and had to be chased off with dogs, whom they fear more than steel.
we took our leave with spirits lifted and saddle bags full of bread, cheese and venison.
waterfall gateways to dwarf republics. We are greeted by a contingent of high ranking trade union officials. After much consultation, furrowing of brows and robust exchange of opinion all conducted in a language utterly foreign to us the dwarves agreed to guide us along their secret pathways through the mountains to the silver sea beyond. First we drink sweet milky tea and eat a vareity of delectable biscuits. We adopt the dwarves custom of dipping the biscuits in tea to soften them slighty, warm and soggy in the mouth. They explain a little about the politics of a workers republic. Foundation myths of revolution. We nod politely and reach for another biscuit.
of course our ears prick up when they mention danger and the likelihood of encountering giant poisinous cave crickets or the fierce goblin tribes who dwell in infernal cities far deeper within the mountains. They hand us a vellum map and extract a sollemn promise to destroy the map as soon as we spy the silver sea. We give our solemn word and effusions of gratitude. They give us some souveneir tat; paperweights, letter openers, toast racks, lucky horseshoes, make a big show of it, sollemn tripe about amulets of power or something. Can't tell if they expect us to take this seriously or not.
We wish them luck with the workers republic and continue on our way.
Later that evening...
drinking in some seedy tavern on the outskirts of a goblin connurbation. it is hellishly hot and slow fat flies buzz perpetualy about our faces, landing on our eyes and lips. old pissheads sit hunched over half-empty glasses, muttering incoherently. Middle-aged women dressed in heels and hot pants, cleavage spilling from leather bustiers, tap the old timers for drinks. flirt with a clearly distressed young bartender. maudlin goblin music piped through the PA system, tinny and distorted. we trade the dwarf tat for two tequillas, two beers and a packet of crisps. the bartender hangs the horseshoe behind the bar. a the beer is unpleasantly warm and has an evil sour taste. it is strong however, and imparts a warm glow of well being. a desultory knife fight is playing out on the sawdust floor. two drunks slashing wildly at one another. losing balance falling over. patrons are betting on the outcome of the knife fight, throwing coins and bottletops at the combatants, spitting, hectoring..
some lovesick drunk is slumped over the jukebox compelling it to play the same self-pitying dirge over and over again while he sings along, a faraway look in his eye. As the song reaches a crecshendo he balls his fists and raises his face to the heavens. Sometimes he drops down on one knee to again plead with heaven.
It is an impassioned if repetitive performance.
tiny albino deer that the goblins rely upon for milk , butter and cheese wander innocently across the room. The flesh itself is never eaten as it reputed to cause madness. The deer are completely without hair and have a soft unformed look, like embryoes. the bartender lights a foul smelling cigar.
tough looking customers play pool and drink tequilla in a smoky corner of the bar. we have carefully positioned ourselves outside their line of sight. we can hear their raised domineering voices. the volatility of their mood. When we overhear them making pointed comments about 'Outsiders' we hurridly finish our drinks and vanish into thin air...
I am an ephemeral and not altogether discontented etc.
I don't know much anymore. My reference points are obsolete. The world is changing too quickly. I've lost track. money shattered.

electric smiles. indentured labour in moon mines. mmmm, soylent green...
chaffinch explodes into flame. black feathers soot and ash fall to earth.
inpenetrable bird cipher. Whistles, coos and cries. Rattles, croaks, caws, and cackles.
Maundy Tuesday passes without incident.
Hale and hearty pagans drink real ale from pewter tankards. Wear wool. Discuss village cricket.
Later they summon a god on a remote Hebridian island. It is a truly dramatic scene. The furious sea, the moon, the rocks. The arrival of the god in all his glory.
Afterwards they retire to the pub for an ale in front of a roaring log fire. Their cheeks are glowing and their eyes all share a remarkable degree of animation.
children can't stop looking at them. shy glances. The pagans meet their eyes and smile broadly. Children collapse into peals of laughter.
In on the joke.
Children's Television Personalities in Rent Boy Ring Scandal.
Isn't it terrible, children have no role models any more. No one they can look up to.
Children are gathered around an enormous television set. They are playing a video game, a vast recreation of various theatres of combat. Jungle, urban slums, desert, moutain range, trench warfare in fields of mud and poppies.... It was designed by the army. It is very realisitc and gory. You have a vast range of weapons and logisitical support. The levels are all based on actual war zones agains real enemies. It gives you some background information on the enemies and why they are evil and hateworthy. It's a pretty cool thing for the kids to be able to experience.
the dwarves were rather dull, worthy characters and we were glad to be rid of them. we sold their priceless map to a pair of seedy looking goblin undercovers. one of them seemed to be manipulating his genitalia through the lining of his trouser pocket. It was quite distracting. Sort of hard to look him in the eye when he's doing that. We took the money and got away as fast as we could. Sorry chaps, no time for small talk...
so anyway we got to the silver sea which was basically a strip of sand and a road lined with resorts, kebab shops, bars with football on the television, arcades, all that sort of thing. Streets full of vomiting youngsters, brawling in rivers of vomit. Slipping over in pools of vomit. Sunburnt and irritable. Abusing the staff in the kebab shop. We got chicken and chips and took it down to the beach to eat.
'Well this is it. The end of the adventure. Land of perfect freedom where we can be at peace.' sun sets in lurid pinks and oranges.

Bit like Burroughs if he'd been into swords-n-sorcery instead of space crabs. Lots of ways I'd love to see that develop. The pulpier the better - Conan and Gor, rather than supposedly classier stuff like Thomas Covenant. Epic sweep, violently condensed. A thousand years of genealogy flash by. The demon prince is off his throne. A vogue for cross-armouring sweeps the land, heroes mince into battle in skimpy chainmail bikinis. The golden child returns from the land of the dead with urgent news: it's fucking dull there. The archlich catches sight of himself in the mirror and is mind-blasted into insanity by his own withering glare. Our hero drinks a potion of health and is instantly cured of the compulsion to go around slaughtering other sentient beings. The saga continues.

ive got some conan. it's really very good. all fantasy is pulp though isn't it? its even (significantly, far more in fact) less credible than sci-fi. i had no idea there was supposed to be credible fantasy. even LOTR is hardly well respected in the 'litereary community' i am drawn to the universe building. i like that in marvel and dc too. and i also like it in blake (and i guess in burroughs too, though his are less rigidly worked out.) is it supposed to be politically retrograde or something? i don't have the stamina or patience for it myself at any rate.
it will read like burroughs because i feel very close to burroughs. he is like the friend i never had. one who thinks about things in the same way and that understands. he's more of a peer than a hero for me, but a peer i look up to immensely. but basically you're in for a frustrating time if you expect anything i do to 'develop' im not really into it. im not even going to have continouous chunks of text. its politically retrograde and too linear. i am constantly frustrated by the linearity of word. so i will have bits dottted here and there so there is no order in which to read it. maybe a bit like an advent calender with tiny windows into enticing worlds. but no matter how you crane your neck you can't see any more. you have to imagine yourself.

oh i got this charcter too who i quite like
A rogue chiropractor who performs double suplexes and elbow drops on his luckless patients.
thats his only appearance though.

and i suppose this section is narrative
alien conspiracies to steal sunlight, leaving our living earth a barren frozen rock.
storms in distant stellar quadrants leave invasion fleet in tatters.
earth people continue as before, in utter ignorance.

im not even going to have continouous chunks of text. its politically retrograde and too linear. i am constantly frustrated by the linearity of word. so i will have bits dottted here and there so there is no order in which to read it.